


Critical Mass

by ireallyhatecornnuts (CharleyFoxtrot)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Therapy, heaven and hell actually get closed, pre-8x23, sam is tired of everyone's bullshit, semi-domestic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:43:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharleyFoxtrot/pseuds/ireallyhatecornnuts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i><b>Critical mass</b> -  the smallest amount of fissile material needed for a sustained nuclear chain reaction. When k=1, the mass is critical.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The phrase, "bickering like an old married couple," took on a totally new - and more annoying - meaning once the gates of Heaven and Hell were closed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Critical Mass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [catboatventure](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=catboatventure).



> Post-s8 fic, AU after 8x22 (which means, yeah, we're ignoring the entire finale. It was, er, actually written before the finale came out. Sorry it took so long to post). 
> 
> So this was supposed to be a short Fluff Friday ficlet like two weeks ago. That didn't happen, for a variety of reasons - namely, this isn't fluff. It also got really long, really fast. 
> 
> Much thanks to [mischievousart](http://mischievousart.tumblr.com/) for a fabulous beta-read, as usual. Also as usual, you can find me at my tumblr, disease-danger-darkness-silence.tumblr.com.

Sam had given a little thought to what he’d like to do after they closed the gates of Hell. He’d tossed around the idea of going back to school; the idea of reinstating the Men of Letters had its own appeal too. Hell, Charlie had mentioned digitizing the entire library, a concept which made Sam want to start transcribing things _right now_.

But if he’s being honest with himself, the “after”?

It’s _boring_.

There are still a few demons on this side (although, of course, when they get sent to Hell, they _stay_ there), but mostly it’s back to routine work for hunters - shapeshifters, witches, ghosts, the occasional wendigo. And sometimes things that seem like they’re supernatural, when really it’s just plain old human cruelty.

If Sam had his way, he’d stay at the bunker and work at transcribing things; last time Charlie called she’d hinted at a database program she was working on that’d be _perfect_ for them. He’d also man the phones, since Garth was still missing and likely dead (Sam spared a moment to mourn that; Dean was right, Garth grew on you after a while). The hunting world was suffering without a Bobby, and Sam thought he’d be pretty good at the job, especially once the library was at his fingertips.

But the _thing was_ -

Really, Sam _would_ -

Okay. It goes like this.

They were driving (well, _Dean_ was driving; Sam was borderline-comatose in the front seat) back from sealing the gates of Hell, which was anticlimactic in its own right. Who the hell just _drives_ after that? That’s what Sam wanted to know.

“Guys like me,” Dean had said, rolling his eyes, and Sam shut up because he had a pretty good idea that driving was all Dean did for a while after _Sam_ had gone to Hell.

Instead, he did the dumbest thing he’d done in recent memory - which was saying something - and brought up the _one_ topic guaranteed to piss off Dean more than any other.

“D’ya think Cas pulled it off?” he slurred, slumping further down into the passenger seat. “Closing the gates of Heaven?”

Dean’s expression closed off. “Dunno,” he said, his voice clipped and angry. It was his Cas-voice, these days: he’d been using it off and on with the angel over the years, but ever since Cas had told them that he was gonna close the gates of Heaven and seal off the angels, it was pretty much a permanent fixture.

“I hope he didn’t,” Sam offered. Later, he realized that he was only half-conscious and barely-recovered from the trials, but at the time it seemed to make sense to continue this line of discussion. “I _like_ Cas. He’s our _friend_. I don’t want ‘im stuck up there with the dick-angels.”

Dean snorted, and his expression just-barely softened; then there was a familiar _whooshing_ noise, followed by the car swerving all over the road.

“Cas, _what the fuck_ ,” Dean exclaimed, and out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw the angel in the backseat, bleeding and bruised. He had to close his eyes against a terrible light; Cas was leaking _grace_ along with his blood.

“The gates of Heaven are sealed,” Cas managed. Then he did what Sam had been threatening to do for the last half-hour and passed the fuck out.

And like he’d been waiting for someone else to do it first, Sam joined him.

The next few days were a blur to Sam, but when he’d regained full consciousness, Cas had been there, lurking like a ghost to the corners, tiptoeing around the bunker and attempting not to piss the oldest Winchester off.

Dean, for his part, ignored him. For the first two weeks, while Sam was healing up and Dean was busy force-feeding him stew, Cas was almost entirely silent except for small exchanges with Sam.

Once Sam was up and about, those small exchanges morphed into actual conversations about whatever he was reading, or the weird things Castiel had seen while he was floating around trying to find God or save the angel tablet. He brought up coffee (and his acquired taste for it) a few times while they were talking, and even though Dean was busy ignoring the angel it quickly became apparent that, yeah, he was still _listening_ to him. Cuz even though he didn’t talk to him, a second cup of joe magically appeared on the table every time Dean made some for Sam.

It was an opening and Cas took it. The resulting argument forced Sam to run to the nearest IKEA to replace a broken table, and very nearly destroyed the telescope.

Nowadays, Sam kind of wished that they’d kept to avoiding each other, because it felt like every time he was _really_ starting to get into whatever it was he was doing - reading a book, translating some Latin, hell, even just checking his damn email - his brother and their angel were fighting about _something else_.

It was like being stuck in the house with an old married couple. Sam very quickly became accustomed to the tentative, jarring feeling in his gut he thought a lot of adolescent children probably shared; like his parents were always on the cusp of divorce and it was somehow _his fault_.

Truth be told, he kind of wished Dean and Cas _were_ married, or dating, or at least screwing each other senseless every night, because then they’d have a way to work through this anger and antagonism without interrupting _his_ day.

Sam closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe in and out, slowly, reaching up to rub at his temples so that he didn’t snap at the two of them. They were now arguing about the coffee, something about the _coffee_ , and Cas apparently had _Opinions_ about these kinds of things now, what the fuck ever, Sam didn’t care.

What it boiled down to is that he couldn’t send Dean on hunts alone, because that was like the number one bad idea (just because hunts were boring didn’t mean they couldn’t turn deadly). The number two bad idea was sending Cas there without himself as a go-between. If he stopped to even _consider_ staying home on a hunt and letting the two of them go on their own, he developed an almost instantaneous headache. Sam suspected it was his brain, trying to explode from just how bad an idea it actually was.

So every time one of them - usually Dean, the _fucker_ \- found a hunt, Sam had to stop what he was doing and _go_ on the hunt. Sometimes Cas came along, if it was something weird, but usually Dean put his foot down and insisted that Cas stay at the bunker. And _wow_ , Sam had never fully appreciated the full effect of a bitchface before, being the originator rather than the receiver, but if looks could kill Dean would be dead _several_ times over.

Unfortunately enough, hunts were few and far between these days, which meant Sam was stuck listening to Jerks One and Two perform the most convoluted and antagonism-ridden mating dance in the history of mankind. More often than not these days, hunters were staking out geographical claims rather than remaining nomadic. Since Dean and Sam (and Cas) officially had a home base these days, they mostly stuck to Kansas, Nebraska, Iowa, and Missouri, though they _occasionally_ ranged farther afield when the situation called for it (imagine their surprise when Tamara, of all people, had contacted them for backup at a job in freaking _Florida_ ).

Charlie was proving to be a _hell_ of a researcher. She couldn’t seem to go back to pretending that none of it was real (that she didn’t know anything about the things that went bump in the night), and she’d been traveling, collecting lore from various areas. It was deeply unfortunate that she didn’t seem to have the stomach for actual _hunting_. She’d tried - gone on a job with Dean when Sam had tried to put his foot down about staying home. Dean had left to meet up with her in Kansas City, Missouri and he’d come back two days later with a fractured pinkie finger and pretty much _covered_ in ectoplasm.

“She’s smart as hell,” Dean had said. “Really has a good head for the lore. Great taste in women, too. But I don’t think she’s cut out to hunt.”

That was all he’d say about it, and Charlie, when she’d spoken to Sam over the phone a few weeks later, was suspiciously quiet on the topic as well. Still, she’d continued floating around, researching in between LARP tournaments and the various political events she liked to attend. She had a long stretch of downtime coming up - winter was settling over the midwest and the snow had forced all but the most dedicated of LARPers indoors until March at the earliest. This, she’d declared, was the _perfect_ time for her to stop in and show Sam what she’d termed, “the sexiest non-internet coding I’ve ever created.”

Sam was a little bit excited.

The six-month anniversary of their closing the gates of Heaven and Hell was spent with Sam cleaning the bunker and clearing out one of the rooms for Charlie to use, while Dean and Castiel sniped at each other over _whatever_. Sam stopped listening to them the moment their voices went from normal to bitch-o’clock.

It had snowed the weekend previous but Thursday had been unseasonably warm, so Sam didn’t expect Charlie to have any problems reaching the bunker. If his estimations were correct, she should be here any minute, which meant, _hey_ , maybe Dean and Cas would stop yelling at each other long enough to say hi. He didn’t hold out a lot of hope for this particular scenario, because they were still going at it about the damn coffee.

This, he reflected, would be a _great_ first impression.

“Sam, can you get your nerd-speak on long enough to explain to _Cas-ti-el_ ,” (and God, did Sam hate it when Dean went out of his way to pronounce every syllable of Cas’ full name; judging by the look on Cas’ face, the angel felt much the same way), “that Folgers is the only fucking coffee we buy?”

Sam slowly transferred his gaze toward the two of them. Without looking away from each other, they continued their argument.

“Sam, I am worried about Dean’s eyesight,” Castiel intoned, his face completely deadpan. “I believe you should take him to a doctor of some sort, as he seems to be unable to tell that I’m _standing right in front of him_.”

“Fuck you, I see fine, _asshole_ -”

“My mistake,” Cas replied. His voice was deceptively bland, and Sam got a sort of sinking feeling in his gut. _Here we go_ , he thought, resigned. That was the way Castiel sounded when he was about to launch the verbal equivalent of a nuclear strike, one guaranteed to make Dean lose his goddamn mind. “I was under the impression that human eyesight degenerated with great age.”

Dean spluttered for a second; honestly, Sam did too, although for a totally different reason. That _was_ a pretty good burn. Castiel: 1; Dean: 0.

“Great age my ass,” Dean finally managed to get out. “So says the seven billion year old virgin. _Jesus_.”

Sam hunched over; he could practically _feel_ Cas rolling his eyes.

“I was married for almost a _year_ , Dean,” Cas said.

“Kinky. I didn’t realize, ‘amnesiac who runs naked through the woods,’ was a turn-on for some people, but hey, it takes all -”

The words cut off there, and Sam took the time to look up and make sure that Cas hadn’t _actually_ killed Dean. Nope, he’d just gone all Angel of the Lord on him, standing stock-still and glaring with holy righteousness, which still had enough power to shut Dean up sometimes.

Blissfully, there was a knock at the door.

“Alright,” Sam said, standing up. “Charlie’s here. Can you two _shut the fuck up_ for like, two hours?”

Dean and Cas glared at each other, and Sam took that as a yes.

 

**๏ ๏ ๏ ๏ ๏**

 

They lasted thirty minutes. Sam was actually sort of proud of them.

The grumpy mood dissolved the moment Charlie walked through the door, luggage in hand; Dean would never admit it, not in these words, but he _adored_ Charlie and she had the unique ability to make him smile even when he was feeling murderous.

Sam wondered if that was a quality you could extract and bottle, cuz he’d pay a small fortune for it.

She got herself settled into her room and wandered out, laptop bag in hand, before Cas appeared in the room and gave her coffee. Because, he informed her, he’d heard that was what you were supposed to do with company.

“Trench coat,” Charlie said, eyes wide. Cas blinked.

“Technically, it’s an overcoat,” he replied.

“This must be Castiel,” she said, not breaking eye contact.

“Yeah, that’s Cas,” Dean said, bitterly. Charlie turned to look at him, questions written all over her face, but Cas interrupted.

“I apologize about the coffee,” he said, his tone dark. “ _Dean_ did the grocery shopping this week.”

“What -”

“Oh, fuck, here we go _again_ about the goddamn coffee. Just deal with it, Cas,” Dean said, slamming his hands down on the table.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam said, putting his head in his hands. Their bickering grew louder and more annoying; on the plus side, they completely ignored Sam and Charlie, which meant he could look over at her with a pained expression without getting yelled at.

“Holy marriage counseling, Batman,” Charlie said. She was staring at them in awe, like she’d never seen this kind of destruction firsthand.

Sam snorted. “No, that’s how they are _normally_. I can’t imagine if they actually _were_ seeing each other. We wouldn’t have any furniture left.”

“Jeez, you have to deal with this _and_ the sexual tension?” Charlie said, gesturing at the two men.

“Welcome to my life,” Sam replied, weary. He closed his laptop and gathered up the cord. “I know from experience that they’re completely oblivious to us, so we may as well make an escape. C’mon, my bedroom’s closest to the soundproofing for the gun range.”

 

**๏ ๏ ๏ ๏ ๏**

 

The strategic escape proved to be a good move: by the time the two of them had set up in Sam’s room (Sam at his desk; Charlie sprawled across his bed), the bickering had escalated to outright yelling.

“Seriously, Sam,” Charlie said, a worried expression on her face. “Have you thought about forcing them to go to counseling?”

“I already told you, they’re not together,” Sam said. Charlie rolled her eyes.

“Not like, couples counseling. Just _counseling_. They’ve got shit to work out. That happens with friends too, you know.”

Sam blinked. “I never really thought about it, no. I mean, I don’t exactly know any therapists who are well-versed in human-angel dynamics, let alone ones who know _why_ there’s an angel playing house with my brother.”

“There’s got to be a way they can work this out besides yelling at each other,” Charlie said, her face crumpling up into the most adorable frown Sam had ever seen. “There’s no way we’ll be able to work with this going on all the time.”

“Trust me, I know,” Sam said. ”I’ve tried. Like five solid _months_ of this, Charlie.”

Her expression darkened. “Leave it to me, Sam.” Then she grinned. “I can always bring up Kansas City. It’s my bargaining chip.”

Sam considered it, and then opened his mouth.

“ _Don’t_ ask, I promised,” she said. “Just give me a few days. I’ll make it happen.”

“You’re _really_ underestimating Dean’s unwillingness to talk about his feelings,” Sam pointed out. Charlie just smiled, like she knew something Sam didn’t.

Sam was astonished when, two days later (just after lunch), Dean and Cas slipped out of the bunker together, a muttered, “We’ll be back,” the only hint that Sam had to go on.

He turned toward Charlie. She smirked.

“What can I say? I’m a genius,” she said.

 

**๏ ๏ ๏ ๏ ๏**

 

Melody Donovan tried not to take too much pride in herself; after all, it was her _patients_ doing all of the hard work. Still, she had the stellar ability (she felt) to accurately point them in the right direction, which was what the best therapists and counselors excelled at. She could, with a single question, make her clients rethink their entire lives; while this rarely brought them to the source of their problems, it usually wound up leading to it. You know, _eventually_.

Melody liked her job.

Sure, you sometimes got people who didn’t want help: drug addicts who were being forced to attend therapy by well-meaning (but uneducated) family members, or those who didn’t understand that as a licensed counselor and therapist, Melody couldn’t give them drugs. Occasionally, the heartbreaking case of someone so far into their depression that they were just _looking_ for someone to give them permission to take that final step crossed her path, and those were the worst of all.

(Melody made a point to never, _ever_ read the obituary pages of the local newspaper. Just in case.)

Still, she liked helping people, and that was what her job entailed.

She had one rule: she _never_ did couples’ counseling. While she didn’t mind dual sessions, the unrestrained anger, simmering resentment, and in some of the worst situations, outright _violence_ of couples’ cases wore her down to the point of exhaustion. The practice (which she shared with two other therapists, a drug-and-alcohol specific counselor, a clinical psychologist, and a licensed psychiatrist) took all sorts of people and served a wide area, so she was used to all sorts, but that was her one rule. _No couples_.

She was surprised when her one o’clock walked in and it was two men who were _clearly_ a flagrant violation of her no couples rule.

They were both roughly the same height (that is, significantly taller than Melody, who somewhat resented the fact that her genetics had blessed her with a slight, five foot one inch tall frame) and uncommonly attractive; the one in the bizarre trenchcoat had dark hair and creepily blue eyes, while the other had fairer brown hair and green eyes. This one flung himself into the chair in front of her desk and crossed his arms, almost petulantly. His counterpart carefully perched on the edge of his chair. Melody frowned slightly; she was almost _positive_ she’d seen him somewhere before. Shaking her head, she decided to get to business.

“Gentlemen,” Melody said, eyeing them. “I’m not sure who scheduled this appointment, but I don’t take couples --”

The green-eyed one sneered. “C’mon, like I’m dumb enough to stick myself with _him_ for all eternity,” and this was accompanied with a jerk of the thumb. Blue-eyes looked annoyed and slightly hurt at this statement, and Melody sighed.

“Alright, then. What brought you two in this afternoon?”

Dead silence.

“Alright,” Melody said, switching tactics. “Let’s try this again. My name is Melody Donovan. You’re both free to call me Melody or Mrs. Donovan, whichever seems more comfortable. And you are?”

Green-eyes sniffed disdainfully. Blue-eyes sighed.

“I am Castiel. This is Dean,” he said, resigned; Melody got the feeling he was used to this sort of behavior. “We are here because we were offered an ultimatum by an acquaintance.”

“So basically if we can just sit here for an hour and a half and then say we talked about boys and braided our hair, that’d be just _swell_ ,” Dean butted in.

Melody stifled a sigh. Dean, apparently, was one of _those_. She’d bet her entire life savings that his father had been in the military.

“Mrs. Donovan...Melody,” Castiel said, apparently trying to decide which he liked better. “I’m curious; which psychological school of thought to you favor? I’m afraid that Freudian psychology wouldn’t do much in a case like Dean’s, but I highly doubt that cognitive behavior therapy is something Dean would willingly participate in.”

Melody blinked. “You’re familiar with both?”

Castiel smiled; it was an awkward sort of smile and Melody got the feeling he didn’t do it too often. It looked unpractised. “And several others. The 1960’s were an interesting time for psychology, don’t you think?”

Melody was about to answer when Dean interrupted.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Cas, she said _Mrs_. Donovan,” he spat out. “Stop flirting.”

Castiel scrunched up his nose; Melody tried and failed to consider the expression anything other than adorable. “Taking an interest in someone’s field of work does not automatically mean I desire them sexually, Dean.” His expression sharpened. “Although I suppose I can understand how you, of all people, might confuse the two.”

“What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?” Dean asked, straightening up in his chair. His voice had taken on a dangerous edge. Melody wondered if she should press her panic button.

“Take it however you like,” Castiel said, crossing his arms and sitting back in his chair. His face had taken on a mutinous expression.

Dean stood up; the motion was smooth and rolling, like the gait of a predator, some sort of large cat. Melody revised her opinion: Dean himself must have served in the military, as well.

“You know what, _you_ don’t get to make judgement calls about my sex life,” Dean said, shoving his finger into the other man’s face. Castiel refused to move, and the finger came dangerously close to touching him. “Seeing as the only person _you’ve_ had sex with had _no idea what you are_.”

Annnnd now Melody was confused. This was the second-worst part of couples’ counseling: inside information that she wasn’t privy to.

“I never said Daphne was the _only_ person I ever had relations with,” Castiel said; his voice was deceptively mild, but Melody got the idea that this was a barb designed to injure.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Dean said, throwing his hands up.

“Had very little to do with it,” Castiel deadpanned back.

Melody coughed a little bit; they seemed to remember that they had an audience at this point, and Dean sat down, stiffly.

“Well,” she said, a tight smile on her lips. “If we’re stuck here for an hour and a half, perhaps, since you don’t particularly wish to talk, you could tell me why your acquaintance wanted you to come in, instead?”

Dean sighed, loudly. Castiel rolled his eyes at this, but when Dean showed absolutely no inclination to answer her question, he did it instead.

“She claims that our ‘constant bickering’ is getting in the way of her and Sam’s work,” he said. Complete with finger-quotes. Melody wasn’t entirely certain she knew anyone who still used those.

Apparently Dean found it equally amusing cuz he chuckled, darkly, his eyes focused on the ground.

Melody closed her eyes and counted down from ten quickly in her head before turning to Castiel. “And how often would you say that you and Dean bicker?” she asked.

He blinked. “I guess that depends on your definition of bickering,” he replied. “If you mean minor arguments, perhaps four times a day on average. If you mean raised voices, roughly the same, separate from the minor arguments. Altercations that result in yelling, that’s more frequent-”

Melody cut him off, her eyes wide. “I’m gonna say, tentatively, that I agree with your friend. What do you two normally argue about?”

Dean snorted and muttered something under his breath.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear that,” Melody replied, sweetly.

“I _said_ ,” and Dean shot Castiel a positively _poisonous_ look, “what _don’t_ we argue about?”

Castiel didn’t say anything but, for possibly the first time this session, the two of them seemed in agreement.

“Okay,” Melody said. She let herself breathe for a few seconds; both men were staring at her expectantly, so she left them hanging for even longer by taking a sip of her tea. “So can you tell me why you two are so antagonistic toward each other?”

Dean immediately clammed up, hunching in on himself. Castiel looked thoughtful, however, and he was the first person to speak.

“I suppose we’ve _always_ been somewhat antagonistic toward each other,” he said, nodding to himself.

Dean snorted and crossed his arms, still trying - and _failing_ \- to disappear into his chair.

Melody frowned. “And yet you’re - _ah_ \- friends,” she prodded.

“We’ve been through too much together to be enemies,” Castiel said. Melody added some more notes to the page she’d begun - the phrasing was weirdly specific. Had Castiel been in the military as well? She got a sort of soldier-esque vibe from him, too, but not _nearly_ as apparent as the one she got from Dean.

“How did you two meet, if I may ask?” she inquired. Dean’s eyes shot from half-lidded to wide-open and he looked _panicked_.

Castiel, however, calmly replied, “I was part of the garrison that rescued him from Hell,” which Dean groaned at before burying his face in his hands.

“Is - that a euphemism for something?” Melody asked, confused.

Castiel frowned. “No, I literally rescued him from Hell,” he said. He looked equally confused.

“This can’t be happening,” Dean muttered into his hands.

Melody wondered, briefly, if perhaps Castiel was delusional. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she prodded.

“Cas, _don’t_ ,” Dean said. Now he looked like he was laughing, his shoulders shaking with apparent mirth.

Cas turned toward Dean, an eyebrow raised. “Did I make a joke? What’s so funny?”

Dean just kept laughing, and Castiel returned to looking at Melody. Unnervingly, he didn’t blink.

“Dean sold his soul to hell to resurrect his brother and I was tasked with rescuing him,” Castiel said, seriously.

Dean laughed even harder.

Melody blinked. Tried to process that, find the hidden meaning. She came up with absolutely nothing, and to cover her unease she took a sip of her tea, which had become tepid and almost unpalatable.

“Your tea has reached the ambient temperature of the room,” Cas said, focusing on her cup with intensity. “That must be unpleasant.”

“Um, yes,” Melody said. She set the cup down. “Now, Castiel, when you -”

She was interrupted by him leaning forward slightly and tapping his fingers on the edge of her cup.

“I’ve raised the temperature to 145 degrees,” Castiel informed her, smiling. “It should be _much_ more pleasant now.”

Melody looked at him, frowning, and glanced down at her mug. Then she looked again, gaze sharpening; small curls of steam were drifting gently from the surface. A quick touch with her fingertips told her that the cup was, indeed, warm again.

She blinked down at it, trying to comprehend and failing. The universe twisted into a figure eight lazily, resettling around her like a vaguely uncomfortable sweater. She had the uneasy, briefly-weightless feeling that usually accompanied the moment before one began the long, terrifying dive down a roller coaster, or perhaps a _cliff_.

“How -” she began, looking up at Castiel. She was terrified. Confused? Angry? Melody didn’t really know how to classify what emotion she was feeling. “ _What_ -”

“ _Dammit_ , Cas,” Dean swore, standing up. He yanked the other man - man? Melody found herself in the strange position of not knowing what noun to apply to Castiel, and she didn’t like it one bit - up by his lapels. “You can’t just mojo shit around civilians!”

“But her tea was cold,” Castiel replied, his voice patient. Like he was explaining something to a child. This seemed to anger Dean more than Melody’s now-warm tea.

“Dude!” he exclaimed. Cas reached up and, gently, removed Dean’s hands from his lapels. He smoothed his own hands down them to resettle the fabric. Melody watched the entire thing unfolding in front of her, jaw agape. “You can’t just angelfy shit, Cas! Not in front of people who aren’t hunters,” Dean said, with exaggerated patience. “They don’t know you _exist_.”

“Oh,” Castiel said, expression lighting with comprehension. He turned toward Melody. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think. I’m an Angel of the Lord, not a human male.”

Melody stared at him some more. Castiel frowned. “Are you alright?

“No, Cas, she’s _not alright_ ,” Dean snapped. “Why do you always do shit like this? You fuck _everything_ up.”

“If you would _explain_ why you’re angry at me instead of just getting angry with me,” Castiel said, voice betraying his annoyance, “I could try harder to _fix_ it.”

“ _Not everything needs to be fixed, Cas!_ ” Dean exclaimed, and Melody started to get the idea that maybe Dean wasn’t talking about her anymore. It was really quite fascinating: one half of her was solidly panicking, and the other was analyzing the situation logically. Distantly, she thought she might be having a (very quiet) panic attack.

Castiel glowered at Dean. “That’s not for you to decide,” he said, quietly. “I have to atone for the crimes I committed as God, Dean.”

“Un-freakin’-believable,” Dean replied, jabbing at Castiel’s chest. The two of them were right up in each other’s personal space now, and if Melody hadn’t just made a connection in her head she’d probably have commented on it.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” she swore. Both of them turned toward her; she pushed her chair away from them, standing and backing up against the wall. “I _knew_ you looked familiar! You’re that guy who killed that politician! And the homophobic pastor! You’re the guy who kept saying he was God!”

Castiel’s face crumpled. He sighed. “I’m afraid that was me,” he said. He glanced at Dean. “I may have overestimated myself, there. It was a - _ah_ \- mistake.”

“ _Mistake_?” Melody said, half-hysterical. Her heart was beating it’s way out of her chest and she felt like she couldn’t breathe, despite her chest heaving in great gulps of air.

Yep, _definitely_ a panic attack.

“Don’t worry,” Cas said, holding his hands out toward her. “I’m not going to kill you.”

“Oh, yeah, that _totally_ reassures me,” Melody replied, clenching her fists at her side. Distantly, she could hear that her voice sounded high-pitched and faint. Castiel stared at her for several seconds before reaching toward her forehead, tapping it with his fingertips despite her flinch.

Almost instantly she was calm, the physical side-effects of the panic attack completely erased.

She stared at Cas. Cas stared back.

“I _am_ sorry,” he said, earnest and open. “I had no intention of alarming you.”

Dean sighed. “Can’t you just, I dunno, mind-whammy her?”

“I don’t _do_ that anymore,” Cas said. He sounded annoyed. “It interferes with free will.”

“Well, free-will up a little bit of peace of mind for the lady, Cas, cuz you’ve just _ruined her week_.”

“ _Excuse_ me,” Melody said, offended. “No one is _whammying_ me. There’s important stuff up here,” and she tapped her forehead.

“There you go,” Cas said, staring at Dean even as he tilted his head toward Melody. “She said _no_. I can’t do anything.”

“Friggin’ _angels_ ,” Dean said, face twisting.

“I’d pay more respect to angelic limitations,” Cas said, crowding himself back into Dean’s personal space. His voice was deep, dark, and dangerous: intimidating and powerful. Melody let out a quiet squeak of alarm, but her body was still calm and - if not happy - _relaxed_. “Were it not for them, you’d be housing Michael right now. _If_ you could even be aware of such a thing.”

“Christ, _anything_ to get out of this goddamn room,” Dean said, rubbing tiredly at his face with a hand.

Cas stared at him, his expression mournful. “If you find my presence so disturbing, I’ll leave,” he said, morosely. He turned toward Melody, presumably to say goodbye, before Dean interrupted.

“Of _course_ you’re just gonna leave,” Dean said, angry. “I was _wondering_ when you’d pull your little cherubic disappearing act.” He shoved Castiel away from him; Cas went with the motion, but Melody got the idea that he was allowing it. In the meantime, Dean began pacing, becoming more and more agitated the longer he did so.

“I’m leaving because you don’t want me here,” Castiel said, frowning. “I don’t want -”

“I don’t _care_ what you want, Cas,” Dean said. He stopped in front of the angel, a nasty expression on his face. “If you’re gonna go, just fucking _go_.” This was said with another shove to Castiel’s person, and this time he didn’t move.

There was a hint here, and if Melody could just put the pieces together she thought she might be able to see the puzzle despite the jagged edges. But she didn’t know either of these men well enough, although she certainly agreed with their friend: _something_ was rotten in Denmark.

Castiel had clearly reached the end of his divine patience, because the moment Dean touched him, he _snapped_. He knocked the other man’s hand away from him and shouted in his face. “I don’t _want_ to go!” he exclaimed. “But if you don’t want me here, I’ll _leave_. Say the word, Dean, and I’m _gone_. Forever, if you want.”

Dean was scowling. “I didn’t say you had -”

“That’s the _problem_! I have no idea what you want because you _refuse to tell me_ ,” Cas ground out.

“Every time I try, you _fucking disappear_ , you just take the fuck off, _asshole_ ,” Dean shouted, right in Castiel’s face. His hands were clenched at his sides, visibly restraining himself from hitting the angel (and _wow_ , that was a weird noun to apply to anyone). “And even when I tried praying - fucking _praying_ , Cas! - not a damn word. So yeah, maybe I’m fuckin’ _sick_ of trying to explain.”

“I’m _not_ a dog on a leash,” Cas said, voice rumbling dangerously.

“Don’t I fuckin’ _know_ it,” Dean said, scowl deepening. “Still don’t change the fact that you never even _tried_ to call us.”

“I was trying to protect the tablet, from things much bigger and more powerful than you. Did you _want_ to be used as a card against me? Do you have _any idea_ what Naomi did to me? What she could have done to you - or _Sam_ \- should she have succeeded in capturing you?” Cas looked very much like he wanted to smite the hell out of something, and Melody tried to press herself farther back into the wall, to avoid being the smitee.

“You think she’d’ve traced a _phone_ _call?_ Seriously?” Dean was incredulous.

“I had a _job_ to do, Dean!”

“And what, it would have compromised the damn tablet - which you _lost anyway_ \- if you’d taken the time to _pick up a fucking phone?_ ”

Cas tugged at his hair, fruitlessly, with both hands, before reaching out and fisting the air in front of him in frustration. “ _Why_ is this so important to you, damn it?”

“ _Because I love you, you fucking moron!_ ” Dean shouted.

Dead silence.

Melody stared at the scene in front of her with a sort of detached fascination. She could see the _exact_ moment that Dean realized what he’d just said; he looked equal parts horrified with himself and terrified at... _something_. Castiel, on the other hand, was staring at the other man, jaw slack and eyes wide; she didn’t know if angels could _actually_ cry, but Cas looked dangerously close.

Dean’s expression slammed closed so completely that Melody could swear she heard an actual, _physical_ door. He turned on his heel and stormed out of the office. The angel simply stared after him, helplessly; both of them listened as, a minute later, a powerful engine revved in the parking lot before pealing out.

After a few more minutes of silence, Melody coughed, trying to not-so-subtly remind Castiel that she was there. He turned toward her, and never in her life had she ever seen an expression that so perfectly matched the phrase, “deer in headlights.” She sighed and, hoping she wasn’t making a mistake, gestured back to Castiel’s seat.

“Sit down,” she said. Castiel did, although she got the feeling it was something he’d done on autopilot rather than actually deciding to do. “I take it this is news to you.”

“I - yes?”

Melody rubbed at her temples for a few seconds, trying to get rid of the tension headache that was steadily building. There was a brief knock at the door and Raul, the secretary, poked his head in.

“Everything alright in here?” he asked, concern written on his face. Melody nodded, hoping she was telling the truth.

“We just got a little emotional,” she said.

“I heard,” Raul replied, wryly. “Not specifics, except for that last bit, but yeah - I heard.”

“We should be fine,” Melody reassured him. He searched her face for a few seconds before nodding.

“Call me if you need anything,” he said, an eyebrow raised. She nodded and he closed the door behind him.

“It’s good that he’s concerned about you, he’s a good friend,” Cas said, absently. His eyes were unfocused, although for all intents and purposes he was staring at a spot on the front of her desk.

She sighed. “That’s his job. Castiel, are you okay?”

He blinked and looked up at her. “I -” He frowned. “I don’t know.”

He did look pretty damn lost. She sifted through her knowledge base and picked the question that felt the most right: “Do you love him?”

He blinked. “I love all of God’s creations,” he replied. He considered. “I am perhaps more fond of Dean and his brother Sam than most of them.”

“Alright, then, tell me what you feel when you think of Sam,” she requested.

“Happiness. Friendship. Comradery. We’ve made a great deal of the same mistakes,” Castiel said. “Sam is my friend and I have stood before Lucifer himself to protect him.”

“You’re not being metaphorical when you say that, are you,” Melody said, wincing and rubbing at her temples again.

“No, I am not,” Castiel replied.

“Okay, then,” Melody said, switching back to the task at hand. “Tell me what you feel when you think of Dean.”

Cas froze for several seconds, like he was parsing the question. “Frustration,” he said. “Worry. Anxiety?”

Melody frowned, and she would have said something except the angel continued listing off emotions.

“Affection, for sure, and fondness. Protective. I often very much want to slap him. I have been to Hell for him twice; I became God to protect him. I left Heaven, and my family, for him and his brother. I want him to be happy, and I’d like to be around to witness it. Is there a word for that?”

“Keep going,” Melody urged, voice quiet.

Cas frowned. “I want - _something_. I don’t know. I don’t understand. Angels aren’t supposed to _feel_ like this. It’s not what we were made to do - not like mankind.” His frown deepened. “Dean is never very far from my thoughts. It is...at times, it’s calming and pleasant, but just as often it’s frustrating and distracting.”

She smiled. “It sounds like you care about him a lot.”

“Of course I do,” Castiel said, looking almost offended. He opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could get to it his jaw went slack, realization writing itself across his face. “ _Oh_.”

“Oh indeed,” Melody said, mentally congratulating herself for getting one-up on an Angel of the Lord. “Figured it out?”

“Yes.” Castiel stood up then. “I need to go.”

“Do you need to call a cab or something?” Melody asked, gesturing to her phone.

“No, I will fly,” Castiel negated. He frowned and turned toward her. “You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Do me a favor, though.”

Castiel blinked and cocked his head. “Yes?”

“Please, for the love of God, go make up with him so that you never have to come in here again.”

The angel smiled, wryly, nodding. Her office was filled with a loud whooshing noise, and suddenly, Castiel was gone.

Melody stared at the spot he’d been in for several seconds, blinking owlishly, before she went to the phone and called Raul. She had two more appointments this afternoon and there was absolutely _no way_ she was capable of doing anything other than going home and getting bone-achingly drunk.

 

**๏ ๏ ๏ ๏ ๏**

 

Dean’s usual modus operandi after a massive emotional upheaval was pretty standard for guys like him, he thought: go to a bar, get as drunk as humanly possible, and pass out in the backseat of his car. Between that and the resultant hangover, he was _usually_ able to forestall the bullshit for at least a solid 48 hours.

Which is why he instead drove straight back to the bunker and barricaded himself in his bedroom. He didn’t stop to get a drink. He didn’t bother answering Charlie and Sam’s questions about how the session went or where Cas was, and he _especially_ didn’t wait around to see if the angel would actually show up.

Which, at this point, Dean highly doubted.

He stripped down to jeans and his T-shirt, mechanically, unlacing and then removing his boots before tossing his jacket and overshirt to the ground. Then he flopped, face-first, onto his awesome bed. Dean was fully aware that he was acting like a teenaged girl who’d just confessed that she had a crush on someone and then was rejected, but honestly, he couldn’t bring himself to give two fucks.

He couldn’t bring himself to give anything. He felt...numb. And numb, he decided, was better than hurt or sad or whatever the fuck else someone was supposed to feel in a situation like this, so he figured he’d take it.

He must’ve dozed off because a slight tapping at the door jarred him awake. “ _Wha_ \- “ he said, groggily.

“You hungry?” Sam asked at the door. A glance at the clock told him, yeah, it’d been a few hours, and normally he’d have started making dinner by now. Today wasn’t _normal_ by any stretch of the imagination, even for _him_ , so he gave himself a free pass.

“Dean?”

Right. Dean took a second to seriously consider Sam’s question before shaking his head. He realized Sam couldn’t see him and coughed, clearing his throat. “No, m’fine, Sammy.”

“Alright.” Sam sounded like he didn’t believe him, but Dean could hear the unmistakable sounds of his younger brother moving away and shuffling back down the hall, so at least he’d chosen to accept it for now.

Dean sighed and buried his face back into his pillow. Today officially sucked.

 

**๏ ๏ ๏ ๏ ๏**

 

Several hours later, after he’d heard Charlie and Sam go to bed, Dean snuck out of his room. He grabbed a few beers, some munchies, and the cast-off laptop that Sam had gifted him the month previous, and then made a strategic retreat back to his room. The beer tasted flat on his tongue, and he pushed it aside after a few swallows.

He surfed the internet for a while, mindlessly clicking his way through Wikipedia articles and YouTube videos in an attempt to distract himself. If there was anything Dean was good at, it was locking shit away good and tight, and the best way to achieve that end was by keeping himself busy with stupid crap.

After choking down the rest of the beer, he put the laptop on his desk and shimmied his way out of his jeans, climbing into bed and trying to go to sleep. It was an exercise in futility, and three in the morning found Dean Winchester flat on his back, staring at the ceiling like it contained the answers to the damn universe.

He’d just come to the conclusion that sleep wasn’t a thing that was happening tonight when there was a quiet tapping at his door. He frowned: he hadn’t heard Sam get up, and while his brother could be quiet when he wanted to be, he _generally_ stumbled around a lot in the middle of the night.

Must be Charlie, then. Dean swung his legs up and off the bed, not bothering to put his pants on - Charlie had seen worse, and _God_ he never wanted to think of Kansas City again - before striding over to the door and opening it.

Yeah, _not_ Charlie.

Dean immediately closed the door and turned back toward his bed.

“Dean,” Cas said, patiently, from the other side. Dean ignored him, heading back to his bed, shuffling under the covers, and trying to ignore the fact that Castiel was less than three meters away from him. It was near-impossible, but hey, they’d stopped the freakin’ _Apocalypse_ out of sheer stubbornness: _never_ tell a Winchester that something is impossible.

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel repeated, more urgently.

“Go. _Away_ ,” Dean told him.

“No,” Cas said. He waited a few seconds and then, “Can I come in?”

“ _No_ ,” Dean said. He seriously considered smothering himself with his pillow to avoid this conversation.

“I’m going to come in,” Cas said. Like he was commenting on the weather and not singlehandedly destroying Dean’s world.

“I swear to _God_ , Cas, if you walk through that door -”

Cas walked through the door, and Dean once again considered smothering himself. At least he’d wind up unconscious, although Cas (the fucker) would probably just wake him up.

He had to give the angel credit where credit was due: he was a tenacious little asshole.

Dean sighed and sat up in bed, carefully not looking directly at Cas; instead, he chose to focus on the decorative _bat’leth_ that Charlie had given him, hanging on the wall behind the angel.

“ _Please_ go away,” he tried. Just to cover all of his bases.

He wasn’t looking at him but he knew Cas was rolling his eyes. “It didn’t work the first two times, I don’t know what you’re expecting this time.”

Dean sighed and shoved himself out of bed. “Fine. What. _What_?” He gestured. “What do you want?”

He made the mistake of actually _looking_ at Cas, and the disappointed expression on the angel’s face nearly did him in.

“Dean -” Cas began.

“ _Really_ don’t wanna talk about it, Cas,” Dean said. For lack of better things to do, he turned and sat at his desk, flipping the laptop open. He stared at the login screen, blankly.

Castiel made a frustrated noise. Dean didn’t turn around, which meant that when he was seized from behind and hauled to his feet - flipped around and pressed into the wall, and _really_ , that shouldn’t turn him on - he wasn’t expecting it.

“ _What the shit_ ,” he hissed.

“I have walked among God’s creations for hundreds of years,” Castiel said, glaring at Dean. His hand was pressed against Dean’s chest, and the hunter spared a moment of brainpower to realize this meant Cas was fully aware of how fast his heart was beating. “I’ve seen works of art and miracles of nature, and I’ve seen countless acts of cruelty and violence, and out of all of it, nothing frustrates me more than _you_.” This was said with a press down on Dean’s sternum, briefly forcing the air out of his lungs.

Yeah, this _definitely_ shouldn’t turn him on. But that was part of the appeal, wasn’t it? That Cas was so much stronger - so much more _powerful_ \- than him.

“Everyone’s gotta be first in something,” Dean snapped. “Let me _go_ , Cas.”

“ _No_ ,” Castiel said. His voice was hard. “You _never_ let me speak. You never _listen_.”

“I don’t _want_ to listen,” Dean said, trying to shove the angel’s hand away. It, predictably, did not work.

“Well, I don’t _want_ to be stuck on Earth,” Cas said, face so close to Dean’s that he could feel his breath against his face. “But I chose to stay on this side of the Gates, to stay with _you_. The _least_ you can do is listen.”

Dean swallowed, because fuck - Cas was _right_. Cas had given up his family, his _home_ , for him and Sammy. He owed it to the guy.

“You give _everything_ ,” Cas said, and his breath was tickling Dean’s ear now. “Everything you could possibly sacrifice, and yet you’re still the most self-absorbed being I’ve ever _met_.” Dean chanced a look at Cas’ face; the angel was staring at him, face blank. “So busy wallowing in your own sorrow and heartache that you refuse to acknowledge that others might share your pain.”

“Fuck _you_ ,” Dean spat. Now he was angry, although he wasn’t exactly sure why.

Cas glared at him, fingertips digging into the skin of Dean’s chest. The hunter had exactly _zero_ warning before he was unceremoniously yanked forward by his T-shirt and kissed to within an inch of his life.

Dean went with it on autopilot, mostly out of shock. The equation didn’t balance out: there were plenty of permutations of it (Dean + Cas = fight in alleyway; Dean + Cas = shouting match; Dean + Cas = saving the world), but _this_ one (Dean + Cas = kissing) had never happened before. It didn’t make _sense_ , like adding grammar to quadratics.

Eventually his brain caught up with him and he shoved Cas away. Cas allowed it, although he glared at him as he went.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Dean hissed. He knocked Castiel’s arm away from his chest. The angel looked back impassively, and Dean pushed him again, furious. “I’m gonna say this once, Cas: I want you to leave. _Now_.”

Castiel stared back at him, thoroughly unimpressed. “Why?”

“Because I asked you to,” Dean said, storming past him. “Jesus Christ, in _whose_ world is this okay? I’m supposed to be your _friend_ , you asshole, not some _pity-fuck_.” At this, he turned back toward Cas, and froze in place. Cas was staring at him like he’d been staring that afternoon, in the therapist’s office: face slack, jaw agape.

“ _Pity-fuck_?” Cas demanded, and the curse word felt wrong and dirty and all kinds of _hot_ falling out of Castiel’s mouth, but Dean pushed that to the side. “ _That’s_ what you think I’m doing?”

“I don’t even _wanna_ know how you know what that means,” Dean said. He walked back toward Cas, who went with it, until his back pressed into the wall Dean had so recently been pinned to. “So tell me, then, Cas. What _are_ you doing? Cuz I’ve been through enough of ‘em to know that this is how booty calls start, and honestly? I’m not in the mood.” He smiled, although he suspected the expression had not a trace of humor in it, and poked Cas in the chest with his pointer finger. “Got a _headache_.”

Castiel spent a few seconds parsing that, and then he scowled. “You think I’m here for meaningless sex,” he stated.

Dean pulled back, crossing his arms.

Cas rolled his eyes. “Dean -”

“I really ain’t in the mood for th -”

“I don’t _care_ ,” Cas interrupted. He grabbed Dean by his shirt again, pulling him closer. “Is your self-image so _damaged_ that you honestly believe I’d use you for sex? _Me_?” He almost sounded offended, which, hah, was _hilarious_.

“Hey, why not, you only ever show up when you _need_ something, right?” Dean hissed. Castiel’s hands clenched tighter in his T-shirt, and Dean wondered if it was going to split.

Castiel looked like he wanted to _strangle_ him; instead, he pursed his lips before asking: “I have been here for _six months_ , Dean, without needing anything from you except your friendship. I haven’t even gotten _that_ , and yet still, here I am.”

Dean didn’t really have a response to that.

“I gave up my home,” Cas said, voice dropping. “My _family_. I traded them in for here, and _you_. For no reason other than I love you and wish to be at your side.” He pushed Dean away from him in disgust.

There was silence. Dean stared at Castiel, trying desperately to crush out the brief flicker of hope that had lit up in his chest. People like Dean Winchester didn’t get happy endings; best not to expect one. That way, when it all fell to shit, he’d be a step ahead of the game.

Castiel looked at him, disappointment written across his features.

“Cas -” Dean began.

“I’m _not leaving_ ,” Cas said. He blinked. “I’ll leave your room, if that’s what you want, but I’m not leaving _here_ , I’m not abandoning _you_. I’m _not like them_.”

His breath caught in his throat, and he tried to choke out Castiel’s name and failed. Distantly, he could sense a pressure behind his eyes that meant tears, and he was pretty sure his lips were twitching - _quivering_ , even, if one wanted to be a fucking girl about it.

Gently, like he thought Dean might break at his touch - and maybe later, Dean might chastise him for it but right now it was so _exactly_ what he needed - Cas reached out, laying the palm of each hand on either side of Dean’s face, forcing him to look up at the angel.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Okay,” Dean rasped. His voice was rough, sounding like he’d been gargling with nails or something. “Okay,” he repeated, because he couldn’t figure out what he was supposed to say. His brain was sort of stuck on a loop, trying to get his head around the new equation: Dean + Cas(forever) = ?

He couldn’t make it work, couldn’t balance it quite right. Instead he closed his eyes; relished the feel of the other man’s hands, listened to his own harsh breathing, ignored the tears making their way down his face.

This time when Cas kissed him, it was almost gentle, chaste, and he gave Dean an opportunity to deny him. It was...reassuring.

 _Loving_.

Dean clung to that, chasing it with his mouth. His hands fell to Castiel’s hips; Cas’ hands slid down Dean’s face until they rested on either side of his neck. They didn’t make a decision to pull each other closer, it was just a thing that _happened_.

Dean wasn’t exactly sure how long he stayed there, hanging on to Cas, but he did it for long enough to get a hold on himself. He pulled back, breaking the kiss with an exhalation - like letting go on one of those stupid trust exercises - and opened his eyes.

Cas stared back at him, solemn as ever, and Dean swallowed. He could have this. He was _allowed_. Cas gently tugged him back into another kiss like he was trying to _prove_ it; this one was a little deeper, a little more intense, and Dean _let_ him. He opened his mouth, and Cas took the invitation for what it was, leaving him breathless not because of the physical kiss but because of the intensity behind it.

The angel broke away first, but instead of pulling back he shifted closer, tilting Dean’s head just so and placing a soft kiss to the side of his neck. The hunter shivered in response, pressing his lips to Cas’ forehead.

Cas pulled himself back enough to maneuver, pressing himself into the wall again, and Dean took the opportunity to snake his hands up the angel’s torso, closing his eyes and feeling the warmth of him, reminding himself that, _yeah_ , this was happening, Cas was really here. He let out a shuddering sigh before opening his eyes again.

Cas dropped his own arms away from Dean, allowing the hunter to have hands on him in any way he wanted, but he kept his eyes on him, kept watching him like he knew exactly what Dean was doing. Hell, Dean wouldn’t be surprised if he _did_.

He pushed that thought aside and leaned forward, closing his eyes again, tucking his fingers behind Castiel’s head and stroking his hair with his thumbs before pressing their lips back together. The resultant kiss was more a series of kisses, breathed between the two of them, eyes closed and air humid.

“Cas,” he murmured, against the angel’s lips. He could feel a slight quirk to his mouth.

“Dean,” he said. His voice fell quiet in the dark of the room. He reached around until both his hands were at Dean’s sides, supporting him with angelic strength and bringing him closer, pulling him into another kiss.

Eventually, Dean realized that this was gonna go one of two ways. If he had anything to say in the matter, he was gonna choose option one (everyone gets laid!).

He could _feel_ that Cas was aroused, knew he was too. He ground their hips together, forcing a stifled moan out of the angel, and wow, that was a sound he’d spent too long fantasizing about and not _nearly_ enough time hearing.

“Dean -” Cas began, voice urgent.

“ _Yeah_ , Cas,” Dean said, biting at the others’ lips before laving over them with his tongue. He felt Castiel’s hands come off of his hips, sagged a little bit because he’d gotten used to the support, and then decided, hell, _why not,_ and went with the motion, sinking to the floor.

“Dean, I’m -” Cas said, reaching for him, but Dean batted his hands away, pressing his face into the meat of Castiel’s thigh and nipping at it through the trouser fabric. “ _Oh_.”

The hunter grinned at the surprised gasp, felt the angel’s moment of hesitation before he reached down and gently began carding his hand through Dean’s hair.

Dean, for his part, was busy unbuckling, unbuttoning, _unzipping_ , and while he may or may not have leaned slightly into the touch he didn’t let it distract him from his task. Finally he got the zipper down and he tugged the pants to mid-thigh, and _wow_ apparently Jimmy just went commando all the time because _hey_ , there was Castiel’s dick.

The angel still had his hand buried in Dean’s hair, but there was no pressure, no obligation. If he’d tugged or pushed, Dean might have checked out right then, but this was his choice, and he bit his lip for a second before closing his eyes, opening his mouth, and diving in feet-first.

Cas let out an audible gasp, his hand tightening briefly in shock before loosening again, going with Dean’s movements rather than trying to control them. He’d never done this before, and it probably showed, but Cas didn’t seem to be anything other than appreciative and hey, a blowjob was a blowjob.

Dean got used to the feeling of a cock in his mouth pretty quick, far quicker than he probably should have, but Cas was clean and mostly it tasted like skin: salty, with a hint of a bitter aftertaste. He tried to remember some of the tricks people had used on him over the years: pressing the head up to drag along the ridged roof of his mouth was a good start, and it made Cas shake in place.

It took a few minutes to get used to the rhythm, to figure out what his limits were, how far back in his mouth he could take the angel without gagging, and he tried to keep his tongue busy while he did it. Castiel’s dick was spit-slick by now, and Dean took advantage of the lubrication, adding a counter-rhythm with his hand, stroking the length that couldn't fit in his mouth. Really, he was a little bit proud that he remembered that bit.

He opened his eyes, turning them upward. Cas was looking down at him, eyes dark and greedy for the sight, and Jesus _Christ_ , the angel was still almost completely dressed, the damn tie and button-down and that _goddamned trench coat_. The hand that was buried in Dean’s hair twitched, coming up alongside his face, stroking at the corner of his lips with the thumb, touching where Cas’ flesh met Dean’s.

Dean’s eyes rolled back into his head and he moaned. With his free hand he tugged the front of his boxer-briefs down, freeing his own dick and giving it an experimental stroke. Fire surged beneath his skin and he moaned again before letting his eyes open again to focus on the angel above him.

Cas took one look at him, getting off on getting _Cas_ off, and his head lolled backward and he let out a loud groan, skull connecting with the brick behind him with a thudding noise. “ _Dean_ ,” he said, panting, but there was a warning there too and Dean took it for what it was.

He was careful to keep up the rhythm with his hand, but he pulled off, licking a stripe across the head and tasting the salty bitterness one last time. Apparently that was all it took because Cas let out an unearthly moan and slammed his head into the wall again, his cock twitched in Dean’s hand, Dean got a splash of jizz on his tongue - salty, not entirely unpleasant but the texture was _weird_ \- and then a whole faceful of the stuff.

He closed his eyes and let it happen. Hell, he _may_ have bit his lip and kept jerking off while Cas made these fucking gasping noises that sent _lust_ and _want_ coursing through him in pounding, crashing beats. You know. _Theoretically_.

He stopped stroking when Cas slumped against the wall incrementally, licking his lips and dragging both hands up and down against the sensitive skin of the angel’s inner thigh. A noise, surprised and needy, came from above him and he glanced up in time to see Castiel’s free hand coming toward his shoulder, pulling him upward and tugging him nearer.

He hissed, his half-free cock coming into contact with Castiel’s softening one, and then the angel was on him, kissing him to within an inch of his freakin’ _life_ , smearing jizz around with his thumbs and lips. Dean kissed back with enthusiasm and sort of dry-humped Castiel’s hip. _Keepin’ it classy, Winchester._

When Cas pulled away, eyes wild, Dean - for just a second - thought he was about to get his ass smote and he thought, _what a way to go_. But instead, Cas brought his face closer and his tongue darted out, licking a path down Dean’s cheek and holy _hell_ , he was licking up his own come.

Which was _incredibly_ fucking hot. The noise that came out of him wasn’t something he had control over, some wild sort of noise, a cross between a growl and a moan, and Castiel’s eyes fluttered closed as he shuddered.

There was a noise, _wingbeats_ , and Dean tensed, thinking Cas had disappeared on him, before he realized he was laying in bed, Cas standing over him, stripping as quickly as possible. This, yeah, _this_ was something Dean could get behind, and he tugged his shirt over his head.

Fingertips wrapped around the edge of his boxers, tugging them down the rest of the way and pulling them off, taking his socks along for the ride, and Cas looked down at him, triumphant, like he’d just unwrapped a Christmas present.

And yeah, Cas was naked, completely naked, and Dean desperately wanted to pull him down, to map out every inch of skin with his fingers and tongue, but Cas pinned him down with his thighs, sitting across his lap. He could feel muscles tensing and relaxing in increments through his skin, Cas flexing experimentally above him, and he groaned, throwing his head back into his pillow as the angel wrapped a hand around his cock.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he muttered, trying to thrust his hips up into the tunnel Cas’ fingers had formed. There were noises and he should probably be paying attention but this - this felt _too_ good, _too_ overwhelming, and honestly he was surprised he hadn’t blown his load from the get-go.

The noises increased and then, a few seconds later, he could hear a gasp; his eyes shot open and he realized that Cas was reaching behind himself, and Dean had a pretty damn good idea what he was doing. A bolt of something - fire, lust, lighting, he couldn’t tell - shot through him and he reached down, stilling Castiel’s hand.

Cas, for his part, didn’t seem to notice, his eyes wide in the darkness, voice almost unnaturally high-pitched (for him) as he made small breathy noises that might, on anyone else, have been termed moans. Dean tugged, pulling the angel up, past his dick, and he reached around with his fingertips, feeling what he couldn’t see.

Fingers, two of them, were slickly making their way in between Castiel’s asscheeks; Dean closed his eyes, delving deeper, and he could feel it, right there, where Cas’ fingers were buried inside of him, thrusting as best as they could with the awkward position they were in. Cas sort of _rolled_ his hips, pushing back down onto his own fingers, and Dean let out a groan as he realized that the angel was _fucking himself on his own fingers_.

Dean’s fingers were a mess, covered in lube and God knows what else, so it didn’t take much nudging for one of his to join Castiel’s and the angel shook, trembling in place as he moaned quietly. Fuck, it was tight, _hot_ , and Dean bit his lip, struggling not to come.

It was probably angelic mojo, but Cas was hard again, which Dean discovered when he opened his eyes to take in the sight. The light was better from his bed and he was kind of impressed at himself, at how much of Cas he’d managed to take before gagging, but then Cas pulled their fingers out of his asshole and positioned himself above Dean and yeah, Dean was a little distracted now.

It happened quickly, Cas inching his way down on Dean’s length, and the hunter struggled not to just thrust up and _take_. He slid his hands across the skin of Castiel’s hips, not grasping, just touching, and shuddered as Cas came down entirely, legs trembling with the effort.

“Dean,” he said, his voice shaky. His eyes were wide and Dean swallowed.

“You okay, Cas?” he said, and he realized his voice was equally uneven. The angel nodded, breath coming out in an explosive whoosh, and Dean could feel him forcing himself to relax.

Cas inhaled again and then experimentally flexed his legs. “ _Oh_ ,” he said, sounding lost.

Dean tightened his fingers, digging into the tender flesh of Cas’ hips. “You okay?” he asked again.

“Yes,” Cas said, blinking in astonishment. “It feels -”

Overwhelming? Terrible? Painful? Dean couldn’t imagine that a cock up the ass was that amazing, even though he’d been known to enjoy a little prostate stimulation in his day. Still, there was a world of difference between a thin, feminine finger and an entire dick.

Cas flexed again and let out a breath, following it with a thin groan. “Good. It’s _good_ ,” he said. He rolled his hips again, and Dean swore. Fuck, that was _tight_.

This had never been a fantasy of his before, but Dean was laying there, looking up, and all he could see was _Cas Cas Cas_ \- Cas flexing, Cas moving, Cas staring down at him like he was something fucking _precious_.

The angel leaned down, propping himself up on one hand and urging Dean to move, and he _did_ , pulling his legs up for support before thrusting up into that - _fuck_ \- incredible, tight heat, burying himself inside of the other man, and tilting his head upward, meeting Cas for a kiss.

Cas _peppered_ Dean’s face with kisses, stopping occasionally to lick off a spot of jizz that he’d missed before - which invariably would lead to Dean tensing and thrust upward sharply. Each time, Cas would pause and moan, and bring his mouth back to Dean’s; sometimes kissing, usually just sharing breath, panting in tandem.

Dean brought his right hand down in between them, seeking until he found Castiel’s dick, bobbing in time with Dean’s movement, and the moment he touched Cas the angel froze, tensing.

“Dean, I -” he began.

“Yeah, Cas, come _on_ ,” Dean said, pumping the angel’s cock. He could feel it, buzzing underneath his skin, warring with his senses, and he pushed harder, nipping at Castiel’s lips while he did it.

Cas’ eyes were closed now, and where Dean’s left hand was - somewhere in between Cas’ hip and the small of his back - he could feel gooseflesh begin to form. He let his fingertips drift slightly over the skin there, trying to ignore the pounding in his own veins, but it was fruitless, and he felt himself tense up.

“ _Cas_ ,” he breathed.

The angel grabbed his chin, forcing him to look up. Blue eyes locked onto green, and Dean was _done_. The breath left his lungs, and pleasure pounded through him, from the base of his spine and then _up_ , creeping through his scalp and skin.

Cas had let go of his chin at some point, circling his hand around Dean’s and his own cock, pushing himself through to his own orgasm, and Dean came back to himself just in time to see Cas lock his eyes on to his again, breathe, “I love you,” and come all over Dean’s stomach.

Dean’s hand, almost of its own accord, came to settle on the back of Castiel’s neck as the angel settled his head in the crook of Dean’s shoulder, breathing heavily.

“Yeah,” Dean said, and he sounded exhausted even to himself. He pressed a kiss into Castiel’s shoulder, wearily. “Me too, Cas.”

 

**๏ ๏ ๏ ๏ ๏**

 

Sam wouldn’t be entirely surprised if Dean had killed the counselor and the reason Cas had been gone since yesterday was because he was trying to find somewhere to hide the body. He’d let Dean mope for a while but he wanted to make sure no felonies had been committed, and besides, Charlie had reminded him that this Thursday - in _two days_ \- was Thanksgiving, so they needed to go grocery shopping.

By the time eleven in the morning rolled around, Sam was tired of Dean hiding himself in his room. Something had gone down, something big, and even if Dean didn’t want to talk about it - which, jeez, Sam couldn’t even comprehend how unhealthy that was, but whatever - he _did_ need to leave his room.

He knocked on the door. “Dean? C’mon, man,” he said, twisting the knob in his hand and pushing the door open. “You’ve been hiding in here since -”

He cut himself off abruptly. Dean was there, but he wasn’t alone, and really, there wasn’t any protocol to deal with what you’re supposed to do when you walk in on your brother and an Angel of the Lord cuddling.

 _Naked_.

Sam stared. Considered starting a sentence and thought better of it. This may have had something to do with the fact that Cas didn’t actually seem to sleep, _ever_ , and was sort of glaring at Sam. He put his finger up against his lips, indicating that he wanted Sam to stay quiet.

Dean, adorably enough, was curled into Castiel’s side, face buried in his ribs, and Cas’ arm was slung around Dean’s shoulders, holding him in place. Like he could tell he was being watched, even in his sleep, Dean shifted, snuffled, and settled back into place, nuzzling at Cas’ skin.

Sam’s jaw worked silently, and Castiel looked at him. Say anything about it and die, was what his expression said, but Sam had made his own selection of terrible life choices and this one kind of escaped on its own.

“Fucking _finally_ ,” he mouthed, making a gesture with his hand. Cas rolled his eyes, and Sam quietly shut the door behind him.

He made his way to the main room and the air of satisfaction must have just rolled off him him freaking _waves_ , because Charlie looked up and a raised eyebrow.

“Is Dean awake?” she asked.

“Nope, he’s asleep,” Sam said, face cracking into a huge grin. “With Castiel.”

“I frakking _knew_ it,” Charlie said, pumping the air with her fist.

“I know, right?” Sam replied, settling himself down at the table. “We can finally get some work done around here.”

“Yeah, until they start screaming for a _totally different_ reason,” Charlie said, her eyebrows wiggling suggestively.

Sam groaned.

 

**๏ ๏ ๏ ๏ ๏**

 

Melody Donovan probably wouldn’t have chosen to make this her life’s work, but then again, it was like hunting - you _fell_ into it, you didn’t _choose_ to do it.

The past six months felt a little ridiculous, actually - someone ( _probably_ Castiel, if she was honest with herself) had left a package at her office for her around then. To her surprise it contained a thorough primer on the creatures hunters often dispatched, as well as a series of books by someone named Carver Edlund.

If she’d been given these before their little therapy session, she probably could have helped them more. She could have pinpointed Dean’s abandonment issues and self-hatred with ease, and it also would have been terribly, laughably effortless to prove to Castiel how much he loved the hunter.

Still, it was good that _someone_ \- once again, probably Castiel, and she’d have to thank him sometime in the future - had given her a primer, because someone _else_ (most likely Sam Winchester; the name had come up a few times in sessions) had started circulating her name in hunting circles as a bona-fide counselor and therapist.

Something, she realized, the hunting world _sorely_ needed.

It only took a few sessions to realize that there was a niche that needed filling, and she cut her hours at the practice and set up a home office out of her garage. Her husband thought she was completely insane, until they’d been attacked by one of the few remaining hordes of demons in America.

Luckily, her clients were somewhat protective of her, and her home was one of the best-protected, well-warded buildings in the Midwest. Short of, she’d heard, wherever it was the Winchesters themselves set up shop.

Gary, her husband, was an honest-to-God _smith_ ; he worked as a journeyman for a shop outside of Lebanon, but his home forge _very_ suddenly became dedicated to the creation of charms, amulets, and the various other items hunters needed.

They ran a brisk business; what they couldn’t get in cash they took in trade, and eventually she quit the practice entirely and worked exclusively for hunters of the supernatural. She had, somewhere within Lebanon’s plethora of paperwork, an actual business license that denoted her as a private therapist, but she made so little actual capital that the county paid absolutely no attention to her.

There were a _lot_ of females; women who had been left widowed by vampires or childless by shtriga; women whose parents had been in the life; women who had been mistaken as weak by creatures who didn’t know what they were dealing with. They were generally more likely to come in and stay coming.

But through them, the men found her. She often teleconferenced with the ones who couldn’t make it to the rural United States; hell, she’d even sharpened up her college Japanese and begun taking foreign clients over Skype. In the little downtime she had, she was working on completing her doctorate in psychological therapy, and she was seriously considering trying to prove to one of the counselors at her former practice that the hunting community actually existed.

Because pretty soon, she was _going_ to need help.

It was a Saturday. She kept limited hours on Saturdays and Sundays, generally preferring to take those as days off, but she’d gotten into the business to help people and she intended to do _exactly_ that, and it was with some reluctance that she accepted an appointment right before the end of her business day.

“Your two o’clock is here,” Gary said, knocking at the door between the kitchen and the garage. “Just saw ‘em pull up. Some big-ass black _monster_ of a car.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Alright, thanks,” she said. The garage door was closed, but there was an actual, human-sized one in the side of the building, so clients didn’t have to traipse through her house to get in. Gary had actually hung a sign from the front door after the first few mistakes, but after a while, pretty much everyone got the hang of it.

To her surprise, two _very_ familiar faces slunk in through her doorway; Dean Winchester himself, and the angel Castiel. Dean was leaning heavily on a pair of crutches and there was a cast on his left foot, which she supposed explained the annoyed expression on his face. However, when the two of them sat down, she could say with relative assurance that _neither_ of them looked as grumpy as they had six months previous.

Dean looked around before focusing in on her, a half-cocked grin stretching across his lips. “Nice place you got here,” he commented. He crossed his arms, very casually and not at all in a defensive manner, which, yeah, that was _progress_.

“I probably wouldn’t have _needed_ it were it not for your brother’s illicit advertising campaign,” she said, raising her eyebrow.

Dean’s grin widened, if that were at all possible. “Ah, come on, you _love_ it,” he said. She had to admit, he had a point. She probably wouldn’t have chosen this, but she’d come to care for her clients in a way that never would have been possible at the old practice, and hey, life was never _anything_ but exciting.

“So, what brings you gentlemen here today?” she asked, folding her hands on her desk.

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes, and then glanced over at Castiel, who wore an antagonistic expression.

She raised her eyebrow, and Dean spread his hands out. “Remember how you said you didn’t _do_ couples counseling?” he said, gingerly.

The second eyebrow joined the first. “I do,” she said.

Dean winced and sort of shifted away from Cas. “You think you could make an exception? Cas’s got his panties in a wad and um -”

Cas let out an explosive, annoyed breath and Melody blinked in surprise. Then she blinked again. “Hey, Gary?” she called out.

He poked his head in. “Yeah, hon?” he asked.

“If anyone calls, I’m busy all afternoon and evening,” she said. She hadn’t taken her eyes off of Dean, who grew more and more sheepish under her gaze. Gary nodded and she made a mental note to see about trying to persuade some of the more _unprepared_ hunters to train for secretarial work.

“So,” she said, leaning forward. “Tell me what’s going on with you two.”

Dean’s grin faltered as he launched into the tale - something about rings or jewelry - and Melody smiled to herself. Despite everything, these two were so deeply in love that they’d sucked it up and come back to her. They _gave a shit_.

This, _somehow_ , she’d done right.  

**Author's Note:**

> So, if you read that and you're in a good mood, can I ask a huge favor?
> 
> The favor is just to keep reading past this.
> 
> The Supernatural fandom can be kind of horrible sometimes, but others we're really, really awesome. We've sent people to Haiti to build hospitals and we've saved people's lives. So I'm kind of pleading to that part of us, the part that gives a shit.
> 
> One of our own, [Alison](http://catboatventure.tumblr.com/), is kind of going through a shitty time right now. I'm not gonna go into details - they're on her blog if you want to look for them - but the long and short of it is that her ex is an ass and she's now in a really horrible financial situation with three kids to care for, and no safety net to fall back on (also, she'd never ask herself and will probably be kind of annoyed with me for posting this, but no man is an island and there's nothing wrong with needing help, I think). If you check out her blog, you'll see a PayPal donation button right there at the top.
> 
> If you have a few bucks you could throw her way, you'd be helping keep three kids and a really awesome destiel writer off the streets. If you can't, that's fine too. Lord knows I'm not in a position to help much right now, either, but good thoughts her way wouldn't go amiss. 
> 
> Thanks for your time, and thanks for reading.
> 
>  **Edit:** We have managed, through this and tumblr, to raise enough to keep Alison in her house for another month! Thank you to everyone who donated!
> 
> ===========================
> 
> Some of you are still asking, two years later, if my friend needs help, and while she does I don't think she's accepting donations anymore (pride, you see). 
> 
> In lieu of that, I ask that you take a look at this project, which is awesome: http://www.gofundme.com/mythpla
> 
> Last year for Misha's AMOK challenge I traveled to Los Angeles and I saw some of the most destitute people in the United States while we handed out care packages on Skid Row. Helping the homeless of Los Angeles would mean a lot to me, so if you have a few bucks to throw this guy's way, that would be super-awesome. If not, that's okay too! I'm still really glad you enjoyed the story, and thanks for reading it!


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